


It's The Way It Goes

by morelenmir



Series: Pie 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Food Porn, Gen, Pie, but pie is wonderful, explicit descriptions of delicious pie, oh and then sadness, why, why is this so much more serious than the first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-19
Updated: 2011-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morelenmir/pseuds/morelenmir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has some time to himself and he savors it with pie, remembering the few other times he's been able to sit down and truly enjoy a slice.</p><p>An epilogue of sorts to Once There Was a Piemaker. Not as cheery, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Way It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> The pie mentioned within is this good. Hand to God, I nearly wept.

Sam is taking a shower and Dean has the room to himself, and he knows exactly what he is going to do. Marking the page of the leather bound book he's been studyingalbeit halfheartedlyhe rises from the peg-legged table and silently crosses the room, light footfalls muffled by the stained carpet. His target is the mini fridge and his goal is concealed within. Pulling the small door open, Dean zeroes in on the foremost brown box, his mouth already salivating.

He takes the box out, bumps the fridge shut with his knee and slides hurriedly across the open space, sitting down on the queen bed closest to the locked motel room door and crossing his legs Indian style. Criss-cross, apple sauce sang the kindergarten rhyme he vaguely recalls. Dean lays out with unaccustomed ceremony a white paper napkin, folded in a triangle, and a plastic fork on top of the napkin, set on the florid bedspread above his right knee, and the box is centered before him, a perfect two inches from the napkin's edge and three from his legs.

A slow breath in, hold, release, and Dean opens the box. He was careful to not jostle their containers on the way back from lunch, didn't want to spoil or jar the slices inside. He's already eaten one of his two pieces since they returned to the motel and he'd been holding back on the second for a moment like this.

He wants to remember all of it.

Large artistic curls of whipped cream slide over the crust at the broadest section of the slice, decorated with crushed almonds; streams of chocolate sauce in slender latticework accent a hearty topping of a softer buttery cream; turning the box, he can see half the slice is composed of moist chocolate under the whipped cream; a heavy spread of a cream cheese concoction makes the final layer; and the thick crust underneath is soft and not too crumbly, obviously made from scratch. Chocolate and cream and crust and a gentle hint of cinnamon mingle pleasantly in an odor so filling Dean almost doesn't want to eat, just live off the aroma alone.

Now however, there isn't anything more to put it off and Dean gathers the fork, poises it above the pristine cream. He takes a second to swallow and then purposefully drives his fork down into the tip. It slips in easily, burying the tines, and he makes certain he broke through the crust at the bottom before he turns the utensil horizontal, a complete section of the pie displayed on the fork. Bringing it to his lips, he breathes in first, the comforting smell circling through him, and then he takes the bite in his mouth.

Hazel eyes bleed swiftly to green and Dean feels himself loosen, shoulders rounding gently as he sighs, relaxes, rolls the pie over his tongue experimentally. The whipped cream polishes away first in the mouth, followed by the soft cream topping. The crushed almonds linger, crunching into the chocolate, and oh, the chocolate. Thickened with flour and richer than any pudding or mousse he's ever had before, it doesn't slide over his tongue, forcing him to work at it, feel the overwhelming texture and taste of it. Underneath the chocolate the cream cheese and crust mash together, flaking and flavorful, and push into the chocolate. His mouth is so full of pie and saliva and bliss Dean is glad he didn't take a larger bite.

He closes his eyes and picks the pie apart meticulously, savoring each individual taste. He might laugh at Sam's OCD tendencies, but he has routine. It is not very often that he has the time and peace and willingness to do this, yet now he does and he takes advantage of it

The last time he'd done this was eight months ago. Lisa was gone for the weekend and Dean and Ben want to make her a surprise pie. Dean insisted you couldn't go wrong with a toothsome blackberry pie while Ben really wanted chocolate anything. They had come to a compromise, predictably agreeing on chocolate blackberry pie, when they couldn't find a recipe for such a pie, so they decided to make one up from a chocolate pie recipe and a blackberry pie recipe.

It was disastrous. The kitchen looked like a giant bruise, mottled black and brown and purple and greeneven now Dean's not sure what the green came fromand they burned the pie and their fingers and their tongues when they tried to taste it too soon. When Lisa walked in the door it was to the smell of burnt chocolate and Ben and Dean looking like they'd spread paint over themselves in camouflage. The two sat beaming proudly in a mostly clean kitchen, the crunchy dessert on the counter between them, and she had smiled and shaken her dark curly head.

That evening after Dean made the roundswindows and doors locked, salt spread and traps complete and hidden under foot rugshe slipped into the kitchen and flicked on the cooktop light. Sliding the failed pie out of the oven, Dean gathered a plate, a napkin, a fork, and a glass of milk, and he cut out a slice and plopped it on the plate. He had grinned at the squelching sound it made and put the pie away, tucking the napkin and fork into a pocket, and carried the glass and plate into the dining room.

Dean had sat down, back against the wall and facing the wooden table, and arranged everything in front of him. Folded into a triangle, a blue cloth napkin; resting centered on the cloth, a silver fork; situated directly three inches from the cross of his legs, a white ceramic plate two inches from the napkin; dampening a ring in the carpet two inches from the plate, a cool glass of milk held in a straight line from his left knee. He looked at the set up for a long silent moment and then slowly ate the pie. It tasted terrible, it really had, scratching down his throat, and he had to refill his glass, but he ate the whole piece.

He had made pie with a new family and the memory is sweet, tinged with an aftertaste of sorrow. Dean takes another bite of the Pie Goddess' chocolate pie and thinks about the time before Ben and Lisa, the last time then he had done this little ceremony.

He was sixteen, loud, brash and arrogant as the week is long. Dean doesn't know how Bobby put up with him for two weeks, never mind two hours. In retrospect he really should have been shot in the ass with birdshot at least a few times. John Winchester was off on a solo hunt and had dumped Sammy and Dean at Bobby's, leaving them with an old man grumpier than their father. Five days in and Sam had gotten sick, and the only thing he wanted to eat was pie. 

Bobby had gruffly helped Dean make a small apple piebest to keep it simple, he'd explainedand showed him how to kneed and turn the crust, make sure it was too thick and not so thin it'd tear. Dean had peeled the apples under Bobby's supervision and chopped them, occasionally snapping at him whenever Dean had thought Bobby was being too bossy. The two men, one young and one old, both exceedingly bullheaded, eventually got the pie into the oven, where Dean hovered for the next hour.

He'd also haughtily informed Bobby that he doesn't hover, he lies in wait. Bobby rolled his eyes with the familiar refrain "Idjit" and left the kitchen, trusting Dean to know when it was done. Sixty-six minutes in the oven and Dean proclaimed it ready, quickly removing it and preparing a slice for Sam. The kid ate three and a half slices before falling asleep, a smile on his flushed face and crumbs everywhere.

Dean had waited until Sammy was deep in sleep before leaving the guest bedroom, taking the plate of leftovers. It was late and he suspected Bobby had already turned in for the night as he put Sam's plate in the yellow fridge and took a plate out of the cupboard. Dean hadn't tried his pie, _his_ pie, yet and now that the creaking house was mostly quiet, he had time to enjoy it.

The slice of apple pie on the blue rimmed white plate looked lonely, despondent, and Dean hadn't known why. He poked at it listlessly with his fork, trying to unravel the sad dessert's secret, when he remembered something. It was faint and warm and glowing, and Dean found himself digging through Bobby's kitchen drawers, hunting up a dinged silver fork in one drawer, a stained cloth napkin that had probably cleaned a few engines shoved in another, and lastly he'd poured a glass of milk and set it by the plate.

He sat back down and immediately frowned. Something still wasn't right. He played with the napkin, folding it in different shapes until one jumped out at him. The cloth was folded into a triangle, his brain identifying it as a right isosceles triangle, and it was good. Satisfied, he turns the long side toward the plate, setting the fork on it. Good, yet not all the way right.

His shoulders had slumped and Dean dropped his elbows on the table, plopping his chin into his hands, and he'd glared at the innocuous-seeming pie. Ten minutes passed as he wordlessly stared at the small setting, irritation prickling over him uneasily. Ten minutes and his head lifted, eyes staring out at a call he remembers hearing, and he took the dishes from the table and walked purposefully to the dining room. He set his back against the wall and slid carefully down, balancing the milk and pie. He'd crossed his legs and placed the chipped dish in front of him, the milk to the upper left of the plate and the napkin and fork to the immediate right. He spent a few moments squaring everything, subconsciously spacing them in exact inches.

This was right.

Dean blinks long-lashed hazel eyes, takes a startled breath. He remembers making his first pie over fifteen years ago at the request of his little brother, and the first time he'd ever slowed down to savor it. It all goes back to something, he supposes, and around the time he'd turned nineteen, why he'd done it so specifically came to him.

He takes a hefty bite, another, and he finds himself grasping for a glass of milk that isn't there. He curls his fingers back in from their reach and looks at them thoughtfully. There hadn't been a massive revelation, more of an internal "Oh. I see," when it had come to him. Dean had been taping up three fingers on his left hand when he paused, lifted his head and grunted, "Huh."

A long time ago, when things were very differentDean smiles whenever he catches himself thinking in phrases like "a long time ago"he remembers soft and glowing and warmth and when yellow didn't mean danger.

The memory's never been clear, instead about as pristine as a foggy morning. What he does see, though, are hands. Long, slender fingers, one encircled by a golden band, and a face framed by sunshine looking down at him fondly. A voice and laugh like bells and a royal blue apron.

Dean Winchester, four years old, adored his mommy. They played together and sang together and ate together. She wasn't as fast as him because her tummy was bumpy and she told him he's going to be a big brother. Dean liked the sound of that. That day her tummy was very bumpy and she made lots of faces as she'd slowly sat next to him on the dining room floor, holding a little plate with a treat just for him.

He watched raptly as she put the plate between their knees, flipped the napkin loudly to make him squeal delightedly and folded it by his right knee. He wanted his treat but his mommy told him to wait, it'll be yummier after we make it special, she said while blowing his blond hair out of his face, making his giggles come out. A lidded cup of milk went on the other side of the plate and she clapped her hands and said it was perfect.

Dean doesn't know what that pie was. Sometimes he thinks it was peach and others he is positive it had been apple; what he remembers most is his mother sitting across from his much younger self with a smile like an angel out of stories and her fingers smoothly putting the dishes into their places in front of him. It's where his love for pie began, at his mother's knee, and Dean jerks back to reality when he notes that he's eaten all of the chocolate lush, fork poking aimless holes in the cleaned box.

Chocolate is leaking out his pores and Dean doesn't mind that he smells like he was attacked by the Easter Bunny and lost. He closes the box after putting the fork and napkin inside quietly and they're in the garbage when Sam exits the bathroom, wet hair curling much to the younger Winchester's vexation. Dean laughs at him from the table where he is again tucked over the massive book and then grows quiet, flipping through the pages. Things are normal and he's had pie.

Pie and he go way back, almost as far as he can remember, and he sure would like it if pie stuck around.


End file.
